Confessions in the dark

Chapter 4-what hides beneath

Sebastian

The moment I stepped out of the club, I knew what I was about to do as I got home.

I should have been thinking about the meeting I’d just left, the business waiting for me in the morning, or the men who were expecting answers before sunrise. Instead, I was thinking about a woman whose real name I didn’t know and whose face had managed to stay in my mind long after I’d walked away from her.

Sapphire.

I disliked the name more every second.

Not because it didn’t suit her. Because it told me nothing.

I sat in the back of the car and stared through the tinted window as Los Angeles passed by in streaks of light. My phone rested in my hand, and for several minutes I simply looked at the screen before making the call.

“Find her.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Who?”

“The woman from the club.”

Another pause.

“The redhead?”

I leaned back against the seat. “Yes.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

I heard the faint shift in his tone. My men knew me well enough to recognize when something had captured my attention. They also knew better than to ask questions when I didn’t offer explanations.

“Name. Age. Where she lives. Where she goes to school. Family. Friends. Everything you can find.”

“Understood.”

I ended the call.

I should have felt satisfied.

Instead, I felt restless.

There was something about her that didn’t make sense.

Women usually made themselves obvious around men like me. They flirted too much, laughed too loudly, touched my arm when they didn’t need to, and found reasons to be wherever I happened to be. They knew my name, my reputation, my money. Some wanted the man. Others wanted everything that came with him.

I had never had to wonder whether a woman was interested in me.

Sapphire was different.

I didn’t know her name yet, but I knew she wasn’t dancing because she loved being watched.

I had seen the difference.

She was good at what she did. Very good. Her movements were effortless, her confidence convincing, and she knew exactly how to command a room without begging for attention. But there had been something in her eyes when I gave her the money.

Relief.

It had flashed across her face before she could hide it.

Relief and something dangerously close to happiness.

It wasn’t the reaction of a woman who had just been handed five hundred dollars by a stranger because she enjoyed being admired.

It was the reaction of someone who needed it.

That was what had stayed with me.

She hadn’t looked at the money like it was an indulgence.

She had looked at it like it mattered.

That told me more about her than she probably realized.

I had watched her throughout the night, and the more I observed, the more convinced I became that she didn’t belong with the other women in that room.

There was a grace about her that didn’t come from experience alone. It was in the way she carried herself, the way she looked at people, the way she seemed to separate herself from the environment even while moving perfectly within it.

She was there.

But some part of her was somewhere else.

I knew that look.

I had worn it myself.

The world had taught me early that people could live two lives at once. One could be displayed proudly while the other remained hidden beneath layers of carefully constructed lies.

I wondered which life belonged to her.

The question followed me into the house.

I poured myself a drink and stood in front of the windows overlooking the city. From this height, Los Angeles looked almost peaceful.

Almost.

I took a sip of whiskey.

I had spent years learning not to become curious about people.

Curiosity created attachments.

Attachments created weaknesses.

Weaknesses got people killed.

Yet I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I remembered the way her red hair caught beneath the lights. The way her green eyes had met mine. The confidence in her movements. The slight hesitation when she realized I had given her far more money than she expected.

Most of all, I remembered the look she gave me when I walked away.

Confusion.

She couldn’t understand why I hadn’t asked for something in return.

Good.

I wanted her confused.

I wanted her wondering.

Because I was wondering too.

My phone rang.

I looked at the screen.

One of my men.

I answered.

“That was fast.”

“We’re working on it.”

“Work faster.”

A quiet laugh came through the phone.

“Something about her?”

I said nothing.

That was answer enough.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll call when we have something.”

I ended the call and placed the phone on the table.

I should have gone to bed.

Instead, I poured another drink.

There was a darkness inside that woman.

I could feel it.

Maybe she didn’t even know it was there.

Maybe she did.

Either way, I wanted to find it.

I wanted to know what had made her become the woman I’d watched tonight. What had brought her into that club? What had taught her to smile when she didn’t mean it? What had made five hundred dollars look like a lifeline?

I wanted to know what she was running from.

More importantly, I wanted to know what she was running toward.

The thought should have been enough to make me stop.

It didn’t.

For the first time in a long time, I felt pulled toward someone.

Not because she wanted me.

She didn’t.

Not because she knew who I was.

She didn’t.

That was what made it dangerous.

She had looked at me without knowing what I was capable of.

She had looked at me and seen only a man sitting in a dark room with a glass of whiskey.

She had no idea that the same hands that signed contracts worth millions had also settled problems that never reached the police.

She didn’t know the family she was looking at had been built on blood long before it was built on money.

The world knew Sebastian Voss.

They knew the businessman.

The investor.

The ruthless negotiator.

The man who had turned his father’s legacy into something even larger.

They knew the polished version.

The darkness was something else entirely.

That part of me didn’t belong in boardrooms.

It belonged in shadows.

And I had spent years keeping it there.

Until tonight.

Until her.

My phone rang again.

This time, I answered immediately.

“We have her.”

I stood straighter.

“Tell me.”

“Her name is Ashley Simmons.”

I repeated it quietly.

“Ashley.”

It suited her better than Sapphire.

“She’s a student at UCLA. Twenty years old. Lives in the dorms during the semester, but goes home to her mother when she’s not on campus. No criminal history. No major relationships that we’ve found. Her financial situation is…”

He paused.

“Go on.”

“Not good.”

Something inside me tightened.

“How bad?”

“She’s working because she needs the money. Most of what she makes goes toward expenses at home and school.”

I looked toward the city.

Of course.

The five hundred dollars.

The relief in her eyes.

It all made sense now.

Then a pause—slightly different this time, more deliberate.

“There’s something else,” he added.

I didn’t like the sound of that.

“What.”

A rustle of paper came through the line.

“We pulled a photo from her student file. ID verification. It just came through the fax.”

I didn’t answer immediately.

“Send it.”

A minute later, my phone buzzed.

I opened the attachment.

And everything else in the room went quiet.

No stage lights.

No music.

No version of her crafted for attention.

Just Ashley Simmons.

Plain.

Unpolished.

Real.

She was small—5’4”, delicate in a way that made her look almost fragile at first glance. A slender frame, understated, nothing about her built to draw attention in a room full of people trying to be seen.

Her hair wasn’t the fiery, styled red I’d seen under club lights. It was naturally dark brown, worn long and simple, falling around her shoulders without effort or intention. The kind of hair that didn’t ask to be noticed.

Her face was soft. Youthful. Naturally pretty in a quiet way that didn’t rely on makeup or performance. Freckles faintly scattered across her nose and cheeks, the kind most women tried to erase rather than live with.

And her eyes—

Large hazel eyes that looked almost too expressive for her own good.

Even in a still photograph, they gave her away. Thoughtful. Guarded. Tired in a way that didn’t belong to someone her age. The kind of eyes that didn’t hide emotion well, no matter how hard she tried.

She wore glasses in the photo. Simple frames that made her look even younger, more vulnerable than she probably realized.

There was nothing about her that demanded attention.

And yet I couldn’t look away.

Because this was the truth beneath Sapphire.

Not a fantasy.

Not a performance.

A girl who looked like she had learned early how to take up as little space as possible in a world that still demanded everything from her.

My grip tightened slightly on the phone.

“She doesn’t look like the others,” I said quietly.

“No,” he agreed. “She doesn’t.”

I stared at the image a moment longer.

The club version of her had been armor.

This was what was underneath it.

And for the first time since I’d met her, I understood something clearly.

I hadn’t been watching a woman trying to seduce a room.

I had been watching a woman trying to survive it.

I locked the phone and set it down slowly.

I should have stopped there.

I didn’t.

Because now I knew what she looked like when no one was watching.

And that made everything worse.

Not easier.

Worse.

I finished my whiskey and set the glass down.

I had spent my entire life learning how to control my impulses.

But there was one thing I had learned about desire.

The more you tried to suppress it, the more powerful it became.

And I had never been a man who walked away from something simply because it was dangerous.

If anything, danger had always been the thing that made me want it more.